My cousin Brynlee grabs my hand and presses it against her baby bump to feel her baby boy going to town on her ribcage. “Can’t you deliver him now?” she pouts. “Nope. You’ve got four more weeks, Brynnie. You’re a rockstar. You’ve got this.” I dig my fist into the small of her back, alleviating some of the pressure this little man has been putting on his momma, and she drops her head and moans in relief. “God, I love you. How about you come home with us? I’ll kick Deacon out of bed. You can have his spot.” Like a homing beacon, her hot, hockey-coach giant of a husband hears his name and zeroes
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